


Touch

by Cyndi



Series: Whouffaldi Forever [4]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Acceptance, Adventure, Autism, Autism Acceptance, F/M, Fluff, Fun, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Neurodiversity, Past Abuse, Romance, accommodations, actuallyautistic, autistic 12th Doctor, autistic Twelfth Doctor, autistic!12th Doctor, autistic!Twelfth Doctor, behavior is communication, demisexual!12th Doctor, sensory issues, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 11:41:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5664796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cyndi/pseuds/Cyndi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor explores his sense of touch with Clara and it leads to a deeper connection between them. (Autistic!12th Doctor, Whouffaldi)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch

**Author's Note:**

> The Doctor’s sense of touch is the focus of this fanfic, but the story is about acceptance. He doesn’t magically get “more autistic” when he’s with Clara in my fics, he just takes his “passing” mask off because he doesn’t have to hide his true self from her. Autistic people lead much happier lives when our unique needs are understood, accepted and worked with instead of seen as problems to solve, conceal and fight against. 
> 
> * WARNING FOR AUTISTIC READERS: The Doctor recalls things that may be triggering if you had Lovaas-style ABA therapy.

_“Come just as you are to me_ ,  
_don't need apologies_ \--  
_know that you are all worthy.”_

\--Katy Perry,  _[Unconditionally](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XjwZAa2EjKA)_  

.o

Occasionally, Wednesdays included a different sort of exploration. 

The Doctor knotted the black scarf he’d tied over his eyes and placed his hands on Clara’s kitchen table. “Ready.”

Clara plunked two drinking glasses on the tabletop. “Okay. One of these is cold, the other is hot. Which is which?”

He heard the glasses slide forward until they contacted his palms. The first thing he registered was their smoothness. Touching them at the same time with both hands blended their temperatures together like an image that wouldn’t resolve. 

Once upon a time he could accept something without needing words for it. Now? His mind whirled in circles, trying to find a means to name this nameless sensory experience.

 _Warmcold_ , thought the Doctor, his brow wrinkling behind the blindfold,  _Coldwarm_...

"I...can’t tell,” he said at last. “Don’t tell me which is which. Move the glasses closer to each other.”

“Right. Here you go.” Clara set the two glasses side by side.

The Doctor brought his hands together. His fingertips touched one glass, his palms the other. All of a sudden two stripes of distinct temperatures lanced into his brain.

“Oh... The front one is cold. The back one is hot.” He smirked, self-conscious but not willing to show it just yet. 

“Heh-heh! You didn’t have trouble with the wet and dry sponges.”

“I only figured it out after I picked them up and noticed the wet one went squish. Now give me some textures and let’s see what happens.”

“Got ‘em right here,” Clara said. She rattled a plastic bag, “Hands out.”

The Doctor turned his hands palms-up. Two rectangular objects were placed on them.

“One’s an index card with a swatch of satin on it. The other is sandpaper.”

“Hm.” He rubbed his thumbs across both swatches. The smooth and rough textures mixed together, like a hybrid of some sort. 

 _Smoothrough...roughsmooth_...

“They feel like one sensation, but there isn’t a name for it...I keep making up words and they don’t make sense.” 

“You can’t tell which is which?” asked Clara. Her voice was curious, not dismayed.

“Not when they’re in separate hands.”

The Doctor wrinkled his nose and set the swatches on the tabletop. He placed his hands on both of them at the same time. Thumbs on one, fingertips on the other. Like magic, the blended sensation broke into two distinguishable ones. 

"Aha! Satin in the front, sandpaper in the back.”

The table creaked. He untied the blindfold and blinked until his eyes adjusted to the afternoon light. Clara sat across from him, her hands folded on the tabletop. The drinking glasses and texture swatches were on either side of her.

He rubbed his hands together a few times. Letting himself feel something familiar shook off the mild unpleasantness of the experiment.

“That is so weird!” Clara was smiling. She wiped her thumb across the satin and the sandpaper. “They feel totally different to me if I do it.”

“I can tell them apart if I touch them one at a time, or both with the same hand. But give me one in each hand simultaneously and...I draw a blank unless I look at what I’m holding. It’s unsettling, like having a word on the tip of your tongue and you can’t spit it out. Except, with this, it’s sensations and my brain can’t pinpoint it.”

She leaned forward, gently laying her hands atop his. “Does this feel strange to you, or does it hurt?”

The Doctor pursed his lips. He swore his skin was scalding beneath her palms. A flood of voices from the past echoed behind his eardrums. 

_“It’s just a touch, boy, you don’t need to scream about it.”_

_“Nobody will accept you if you cry when someone touches you.”  
_

_“Don’t be so dramatic!”  
_

Sitting still without wincing or squirming used his full conscious effort. He barely controlled his voice enough to say, “It hurts. I was taught not to show it when I was a boy...but it hurts.”

Her hands immediately pressed down, turning pain into comfort. “How does it hurt? Doctor, teach me.”

“I know a way to show you exactly how it feels.”

She stood, “Show me.”

The Doctor approached the sink to check the temperature of the faucet. Still scalding hot. He turned on a trickle and beckoned Clara over. “Give me your hand.”

Clara did it without question, a sign of her trust in him. The Doctor grasped her wrist and passed her knuckles quickly beneath the trickle of water.

“That’s a light caress to me.”

“Ah!” Clara’s arm jerked back. 

“A hand barely touching my skin is like holding that part of myself under the faucet.”

She clutched and rubbed her knuckles. Her eyes widened. “I’d be screaming.”

“That’s the trouble with adults who don’t understand,” He looked her squarely in the eyes for a moment. A lifetime of frustration erupted from him like the muck inside a lanced abscess.

“They see a child behaving badly or being dramatic, so they teach that child to swallow their reaction. It’s okay to be different as long as it doesn’t show too much because it makes other people uncomfortable. 

“It’s okay to have a disability as long as it doesn’t impinge on somebody else or make them have to do more for you than you can for them. But as soon as a disability becomes inconvenient, it’s a problem to solve, cure or lock away so nobody else has to be bothered! That is the message children everywhere are given every day, and a long time ago  _I was one of them_.”

He gesticulated wildly, grabbing at his thoughts to keep them straight as they poured forth in an avalanche of words. 

“You have me, this child, being told they’re wrong to exist the way they do and it needs to be fixed before they’re seen as a person. Now that child grows up with messages of  _different is bad and wrong_  in the back of their mind. And even when they try to rebel and explore who they are, there is always that fear of rejection because they revealed too much of how different they are.

“I couldn’t talk when I was a little boy. I was nonverbal, and perfectly happy to stay that way. The  _adults_  didn’t think so. My speech abilities were forced onto me when I was four years old. I went from nonverbal to using a proper vocabulary for my age in under an hour.

“I make talking sound so natural because I was taught it’s natural for everybody. And no one cared about the damage done to me as long as I spoke intelligible words. Some of my incarnations had an easier time with speech than others, but doing things with my mouth to produce syllables and words always feels unnatural to  _me_.

“And that is exactly what happens to children here on Earth. The same damn message is being given to them. People tell them they aren’t good enough unless they act, look or sound a certain way. They grow up afraid to be who they really are, and they have to find themselves, their identities, in a world that sees disability as undesirable. And  _I am one of them_.”

The silence following his statement rebounded like thunder. It felt so good to finally express that entire thought without being silenced.

Clara’s expression softened. His words had impacted her, he could tell by how she bit her bottom lip.

“Doctor, how--”

"No...don’t. I don’t want your pity, Clara. Not now. Please, don’t do--”

“Let me finish,” Clara stepped in front of him, her face serious, “How many times did I hurt you without realizing it?”

“It’s really not important. You know better now.”

“It matters to  _me_. I’m not angry at you for hiding it, Doctor.” She switched off the faucet. “I want to know.”

This conversation took a decidedly uncomfortable turn. There was no smooth way to answer it without inducing negative emotions or awkwardness. The Doctor sighed, his eyes focusing on everything but her face.

“Everything before Skaro,” he finally answered. “Holding hands and the kiss on the cheek at Christmas were the only things that didn’t hurt.” Now he spun the question around, “How long did you think I was autistic before you said something about it?”

“I think I started suspecting when you went undercover as the school caretaker.” Clara ducked her head, a look of guilt written across her face. “All those hugs...I made you miserable, and I didn’t even know it.”

“Clara.” The Doctor enfolded her hands between both of his, “Clara, Clara, Clara, it’s okay. I hid it too well from you.” He kissed her fingertips, “I knew you weren’t trying to hurt me on purpose.”

Her eyes focused straight on his. He looked back momentarily before letting his gaze drift to her upper eyelashes.

“Is it that painful all over your body?”

“Not sure, actually. I have exactly one area where I know I can be touched lightly without feeling pain.”

“Ooh, and where is that?”

The Doctor caressed the little hollow under Clara’s bottom lip with his thumb. “Here.”

He felt rather than saw her hand move up towards his face. She mirrored his touch. Then she leaned forward and kissed him there. Softly. Lightly. Gently.

“So you mean to say, Doctor, that you’re ticklish right there?”

“Um...”

Clara wiggled her finger on that spot. The Doctor let out a giggle.

“Clara!”

She smiled and leaned on him, her arms wrapping firmly around his waist. Exactly the vice grip he found soothing.

“When are you going to show me those crystal mountains on...what’s that planet called again?”

“Planet Sossamama. Isn’t that a great name for a planet?” The Doctor grinned, “I could say it all day. Sossamama, Sossamama, Sossamama. Ah!” He held up a finger, “Can I get my Wednesday kiss first?”

Clara stood on her toes, “We missed it last week. Is that why you’re a grump and ranting? Did I break your routine?”

He nibbled his bottom lip and looked at her a bit cross-eyed. No words were needed.

“C’mere, you,” she pulled him close.

They gently bumped foreheads once, nuzzled noses twice and exchanged three pecks on the lips. Such a special kiss, and it became routine by accident last month when he caught Clara in the school utility closet. Ooh, they had a snog that would have gone further if class wasn’t about to be in session. She gave him the forehead bump, the two nose nuzzles and the three pecks on the lips before slipping back out with the markers she came for. He liked it so much they started exchanging that kiss every Wednesday. His mind put it onto a pedestal of incredible routine importance. 

But a Wednesday kiss didn’t happen last week because things got hectic-- landing on a planet with fire-breathing bats tended to be like that-- and nothing felt right afterward. A broken routine turned his mind into a library after an earthquake threw all the books on the floor. He couldn’t stand it, so he fast-fowarded his TARDIS to today. And after a bit of kerfuffle he finally got his Wednesday kiss. That defragged his brain and suddenly everything was in order again. No more anxiousness.

“Better?” She whispered it against his lips.

The Doctor puckered up to steal one more smooch. “Much.”

“Good.” Clara kissed her fingertip and touched it to his mouth. “So, crystal mountains. Doctor. Promises are promises. Let’s go.”

“As you wish.” He mock bowed and gestured to the TARDIS in the living room. “After you.”

.o

The Doctor reclined naked on Clara’s bed. He kept his eyes shut-- trusting-- while her index finger drew a line from his neck to just above his groin. She began with a feather light touch and applied more pressure as she progressed. He marveled at how the burning agony transformed into pleasure right around his belly button. Then she repeated the gesture in an upward motion. Now hot napalm began at his belly button and disappeared at his sternum.

The pain overpowered the pleasure. He hissed and patted the two areas where she touched too lightly until they stopped stinging.

“I’m sorry,” said Clara.

“No, no, it’s all right.” The Doctor flashed her a smile and closed his eyes again, “Now we know exactly how much pressure is best. Here, try my hands now.”

“Are you sure?”

“You aren’t injuring me, Clara. It’s fine. Come on, I’m curious, too.”

He faced his palms towards her. She touched them. A light brush on one, a firmer caress on the other. Both sensations united into something completely unrecognizable, like a scribble on paper. His nerves didn’t know what to do with it. He jerked his hands back and rubbed them vigorously together until his own touch made sense again.

“That felt strange,” said the Doctor.

“Good strange or bad strange?”

“Neither. Just strange.” He glanced downward when he noticed a specific tightness. “You're getting my little soldier’s attention.”

“Yeah?” Clara snuggled against his side, the warmth of her naked skin seeping into his. Into his ear, she whispered, “I want to touch it.”

This was something he feared. He licked and bit his bottom lip to quell his nerves. “You have to be very careful. Handle it the wrong way...” He exhaled, telling himself not to be embarrassed, “...it’ll feel like sticking it into boiling water. That’s why I’m so picky about my underpants. One rough seam in the wrong place leaves me wanting to tear all my skin off.”

She pressed her lips to his cheek. “Can you guide my hand?”

“Um...” The Doctor thought about it before giving her an eyebrow waggle. “Okay. You’ll need both hands.”

“Both?” 

He glanced at her. “I...like to use both on myself.”

Her eyebrows went up. She smiled, “I can’t picture you masturbating, Doctor.” 

“A rare occurrence, I can assure you. Where is the lubricant?”

“Nightstand.” 

Clara reached for the red tube of Astroglide sitting next to his chalk box and No Gloom ‘Shroom. “I couldn’t find any unscented. Here, smell first and tell me if it’s too much.”

The Doctor inhaled when she popped the lid open. A subtle strawberry scent. 

“It smells fine.” He dabbed some onto his finger and tasted it. “Mm...nice choice.”

A faint, relieved sigh escaped her and he realized she was nervous about messing this up, too.

“Clara,” he covered her hands with his, “You won’t ruin this. It isn’t the same as food. We can try again if something feels wrong. Now squirt some of that stuff on your hands and pretend you’re using hand lotion.”

Clara released a self-conscious giggle as she squeezed two dabs of lube onto her palms. She straddled his thighs while she rubbed her hands together, giving them a faint sheen in the afternoon light coming through the window.

The Doctor grasped Clara’s wrists. Her hands were small and soft compared to his own.

“It’s like holding a broom,” he said, placing her hands one above the other at the base of his shaft. “You have to hold on tight.” He wrapped his fingers around hers and squeezed to show her exactly the pressure he liked.

“How’s this?” Clara’s grip tightened further. The same way she held his hand or grabbed his arm.

“Yes...that’s right.” The Doctor led her hands in an upward motion, “Now pretend you’re squeezing all the toothpaste out of the tube at once. Only go upward, not down.” He mimed the motion, “See? Place your hands back at the base when they come off the tip. And squeeze tighter the further upward you go. Don’t worry if you pull the foreskin past the tip, either. I like feeling it stretch.”

She did a few test strokes. His eyes almost rolled back into his head.

“Mmh...you’re a natural. Squeeze harder and move faster when I get firmer. You should always feel some resistance or you’re not applying enough pressure. Okay?”

Clara gave a mock salute. “I hope I take you somewhere wonderful.”

The Doctor grinned at her, “Oh, Clara Oswald, you always do.”

Then her hands went into motion and he forgot how to think. Like having his hair washed, it felt utterly different when he wasn’t the one doing it to himself. It wasn’t long before a bright red sex flush colored his face, throat and chest.

“What if I put the tip in my mouth?” asked Clara.

“Never tried that...not flexible enough...” said the Doctor with a wry smirk, “Go ahead. Whatever you do...suck hard.”

The wet hotness of her mouth closed around him. Similar to her vagina, but vaginas didn’t have tongues or teeth. She did beautifully at keeping up the hand motions and the way she sucked him felt like she was pulling the tip right off his shaft. His breath caught in his throat. Her ministrations had him on the edge, teetering, desperate. One more hard suck and he erupted in her mouth with a sharp tooth-clenching snarl.

Panting, momentarily spent, he laid back again. He heard her swallow and pop a breath strip as a precaution against him tasting any of himself on her. She always thought of those little things.

Clara’s weight settled onto his chest. The Doctor opened his eyes to smile at her.

“How was that?”

“Fantastic,” he replied.

“Good.”

They kissed slowly, deeply, but without tongues. 

“Clara?”

“Mmhmm?”

“Do I let you down because I can’t handle us sticking our tongues in each others’ mouths?”

“Nah. Just means I have to be creative.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“But I feel things  _wrong_...”

“No,” Clara laid down so her forehead fit against the curve of his throat, “Who told you that?”

The Doctor’s Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. “All the adults around me during my childhood. This incarnation is bringing back everything I dealt with in my original body. Children like myself were the ones with minds capable of grasping the untempered schism without completely losing ourselves in the time vortex. But to get there, Clara...”

_“You’ll never fit in if you scream when people touch you.”_

_“You won’t make friends if you don’t talk.”  
_

_“Look me in the eyes, boy!”_

_“How’s my little pudding brain?”_

_“What a shame. Broken minds in perfect bodies...”_

“Well they were wrong, then,” Clara’s voice cut off the flashbacks. “Doctor, your sense of touch isn’t broken. It’s different.” She placed her palms on his and interlocked their fingers, “Different isn’t bad.”

He kissed the top of her head. “I try to remind myself of that all the time.”

“Good.” She raised herself up to press her lips to his, “You said you have a tactile map of me once. How’s that work?”

“Exactly how you think it does,” he said back, teasing her. 

Clara’s brown eyes gleamed with mischief. She turned onto her side, inviting him to spoon with her. The Doctor curled up behind her and slid his arms around her waist.

“Your breasts are a fine example. I always know Leftie from Rightie.”

“You named my breasts?” She giggled.

“Yes, after my hearts.”

“Cute.”

“Mm. Leftie here,” the Doctor caressed Clara’s left breast without looking at it, “Leftie is slightly larger than Rightie,” his fingertip circled the puckered inverted nipple that seemed intent on staying hidden, “but Leftie also has the shy nipple that doesn’t like to pop out right away. She needs a bit of coaxing.” 

Now he cupped her right breast, “And Rightie is a little bit pointy because she likes to reveal her nipple the moment I come knocking.” He gently pinched the emerging, erect nipple.

“You never struck me as a boob man, Doctor.”

“I’m only interested if they’re yours.”

Clara peeked over her shoulder at him, her eyes crinkled from her smile, “What other tricks do you know?”

The Doctor raised his eyebrows. “I can find your clitoris with my eyes closed, and I can do it in less than ten seconds. I dare you to time me.” 

He watched her take a stopwatch out of the nightstand drawer. 

“All right.” She wiggled her bum against his stomach. “You get to play with it if you find it in time.”

“How tempting,” he purred in her ear. “Prepare yourself, Miss Oswald.”

“Are your eyes shut?”

“They are now.”

Sheets rustled. She checked.

“Okay, starting the watch-- now.”

The Doctor placed his hand over Clara’s fast-beating heart. The hollow of her breasts was a perfect landmark. His thumb and index finger outlined the inverted V of her ribcage. He loved the smoothness of her abdomen. At her belly button, he twisted his wrist to point his fingers towards her feet and advanced until he felt her soft pubic curls. 

He overshot on purpose to cup her crotch. Placing his middle finger right smack on her wet vaginal opening let him zoom this mental map in onto her private parts. Not an image, but a raised imprint known only to his hands. She was a valley split by slick softness. The mountain peak he wanted lay under the joint joining his middle finger to his hand. Her clitoris was engorged, but he could find it even if it wasn’t. 

Now he knew exactly where he was.

“There,” the Doctor backed his hand up, slid away the flesh shielding her clitoris and rested his middle finger directly on the fleshy nub. “Six seconds.”

Clara’s stomach muscles twitched. She giggled, “You’re good.”

He grinned against her shoulder. “I know. Now show me how you masturbate. You’re a teacher. Teach me.”

The drawer creaked when Clara put the stopwatch away. She scooted his fingertip off her clitoris to let her skin fall back into place and settled his fingers on the curve at the top of her vulva. Her soft mons pubis.

“Here,” said Clara, “Use your first three fingers.”

“Show me.”

Her hand laid over his, guiding his fingertips into position. “I move my fingers in a circular motion.”

“Like this?” The Doctor swirled his fingers clockwise.

“No, wait,” Clara pushed them harder against her, “Push on it so the skin moves under your fingers.”

“Ah, like a massage rather than stroking.” 

“Yes, that’s the idea. And keep going the same direction once you start. Changing hurts.”

It wasn’t much different than feeling up the fronds on a Zygon computer. The Doctor adjusted himself accordingly, and the hitches in Clara’s breathing suggested he had it perfectly right. 

“Do you think of me when you do this?”

“Oh, God,  _yes_ ,” she gasped.

He exhaled against her throat and sucked on her earlobe, “Do you imagine me touching you like I am right now?”

“Mmhmm!” Her voice came out pinched.

That flattered the hell out of him in ways he couldn’t yet name.

“Good,” he whispered in her ear, “That means we share the same fantasy.”

Her ears went bright red. She reached back suddenly, tangling her fingers in his hair for a brief moment before her hand flopped onto the bed again. The scent of her arousal grew stronger. He pressed harder and moved his fingertips faster, instinctively following her rising response. She dug her backside against his stomach while pushing herself into his hand. He felt her toes curling and saw her fingers do the same.

“The clitoris is an amazing organ,” the Doctor said softly, taking full advantage of his Scottish brogue, “So many nerve endings packed into something the size of my pinkie finger. And I’m causing a lightning storm in all of them.” He moved his lips closer to her ear, his voice dropping low, “ _All_  of them, Clara.”

“Doctor, mmh,” Clara gripped her pillow. Her clenching abdominal muscles and gasping hinted at her closeness to climax. 

The Doctor bit his bottom lip and sped up again, just enough to shake the bed. Her body went rigid and her panting exploded into open-mouthed moans. 

“Ah...Ah! Doctor! Doc- _Doctor!_ ” She sounded like he was murdering her.

Feeling the orgasm ripple through her muscles excited him greatly. The abdominal clenching peaked in intensity and receded. He slowed to a halt as soon as they stopped and wiped his fingers clean on a tissue.

She rolled over to face him, her cheeks flushed and eyes glistening. “So that’s how your touch map works?”

“Mmhmm,” the Doctor waggled his eyebrows, “Was I a good student?”

“Top of the class.” Clara hooked her leg around his thigh.

Her ponytail was coming loose. He kissed her while he slipped the rubber band off, smoothed her hair with his fingers and looped it into a fresh ponytail.

She winked. “Is your knob as good at finding things as your finger?”

The Doctor’s eyebrows relaxed into a line when he smirked at her. “Curious to find out?”

In reply, Clara spread herself out beautifully on her back. She teased him by covering his eyes with her hand when he climbed on top of her. “No peeking, Doctor!”

“I never need to  _look_ ,” he said back. “Now watch and learn.”

He grasped the base of his shaft and started by locating her clitoris with the tip. Then it was a simple matter of measuring downward until he sank in. Her wetness let him enter her easily.

“Ooh, you’re  _good_ ,” Clara moaned against his throat.

“My TARDIS isn’t the only box I enjoy entering.”

“Oh, my God.” Her muscles clenched around him when she laughed. “Doctor! Your pickup lines are rubbish!”

“I know. I was never good at those.” The Doctor started thrusting at a languid pace, “At least I’m good at this, right?”

Clara played with a lock of his hair. “Mm, you have a point.”

Their conversation went by the wayside as they fell into each other.

.o

“This is  _not_  what I had in mind when I said explore an alien pyramid,” Clara grumbled as she paced the perimeter of the pit she and the Doctor tumbled into.

Of course they fell into this pit. All because Clara didn’t pay attention when he said something about the thickness of the floor feeling wrong. Now he’d gotten his crisp white shirt dirty. Definitely the wrong day to wear his dressier attire. He felt slightly better about it when he noticed Clara’s red pinstriped blouse had a rip in the shoulder and dust coated her dark brown slacks.

“Oh, now you say it.” The Doctor groused back, “You’re the one who was inspired by this...Independence Jonas brothers...”

“ _Indiana Jones_ ,” Clara corrected him. “So what’s this trap for?”

“What do you think?”

“Just making conversation.”

He huffed and patted the dust from his hair. “It’s not like ancient traps know we’re not after the treasure. Besides, somebody already cleaned this place out.”

“I came to see the mummy. There’s a mummy, right?”

“What? The Orient Express wasn’t enough for you?”

“We weren’t expecting  _that_  mummy.”

She had a point.

White sunlight streamed in a single beam from the transparent peak of the ancient pyramid. It provided the only light. This world had three suns and each passed directly overhead in three hour intervals. Right now, the first sun shone down. They had about thirty minutes of light before it got dark in the pyramid again, and twenty nine already passed.   

The Doctor spotted a horizontal groove in the tan stone wall and hurried over to examine it. Following the groove with his eyes let him notice four more vertical ones in the corners. He raced to the southeastern vertical groove.

 _Aha_...

“This is a very, very old elevator,” said the Doctor, “And if it can go down, it can go back up. But wait!”

And that was the moment the first sun moved on. Darkness fell into the old, dusty-smelling pit. The Doctor could still see a little bit, however he knew Clara’s human eyes were useless.

He stuck his sonic sunglasses onto Clara’s face. “Here. Use setting four-thirty-forty-five. Night vision.”

“What can I do?” she asked.

“Stick near the walls.”

Something rumbled as the Doctor pulled a few tap steps in the corner near the groove.

“Um, Doctor--”

“Not now, Clara.”

“Sorry if I’m interrupting something, but the floor is getting shaky.”

A deafening boom sounded in the northwest corner of the pit. The Doctor and Clara both fell onto their hands and knees. 

The floor felt weird under his hands. That odd sensation of  _roughsmooth_  and  _smoothrough_. He slid his palms closer together and found a crack between them. Turning his right hand sideways and feeling again let him confirm. The stone felt smoother under his palm than what lay beneath his fingertips. A smoothness indicative of high foot traffic. He was lying on a spot where people often stood.

Now the northeast corner went bang. The platform shook wildly.

“Doctor!” Clara yelled.

The Doctor hauled her onto the smoother stone as a third bang sounded. All but the platform they huddled upon dropped away.

“Trap within a trap,” he exhaled.

Clara’s breathing gradually quieted. She laughed, clinging to him. “Woo! Close one, eh?”

“A little too close,” said the Doctor. He’d been more scared for her safety than his.

“There’s a chain in that groove there,” she said.

“This platform must be supported from underneath, then. We should be teetering off, and we aren’t. I’m not going to bend down and look. It’s not safe here.” 

The Doctor reached into the groove until he felt the chain. A big, thick one. Tugging confirmed its strength. It could hold their weight.

“It’s safe to climb. Come on.” He pulled it close, using the links as handholds to walk himself up the wall. A glance back let him see Clara doing the same.

They dragged themselves over the lip of the pit as the second sun illuminated the pyramid. Clara returned the Doctor’s sonic sunglasses and sat with her legs dangling over the edge. He chose to face outward, towards a giant triangular doorway.

The ground shook again. In intervals this time, like...

“Clara?”

“I feel it too.”

Something emerged through the doorway. A skeletal lizard resembling a T-rex with velociraptor arms. Bright red feathers poked out here and there among the bandages clinging to its bones. He could hear the ticking noises indicating clockwork. This mummy functioned like a giant wind-up toy, most likely activated by the elevator falling. A fairly primitive thing, really, but at three stories tall its size and weight made it dangerous.

The Doctor nudged his companion. “Turn around. There’s your mummy. Happy now?” 

Clara looked over her shoulder. She grinned even though her eyes bled fear. “Oh yeah.”

“I don’t have to say run, do I?”

“Nope, but there’s nowhere to run!”

“In that case, don’t run!”

He looked up at the length of chain hanging over the pit. A small one for transporting material.

Footsteps continued vibrating the ground. Closer now, always closer.

The Doctor jumped up and pulled the chain down. It ran out of slack as the tip touched the floor. Good enough, but there wasn’t time to swing across and pass it off.

“Clara, climb on!”

Thankfully, Clara didn’t ask questions. She jumped and climbed partway up the chain. In black spike heels, no less. The Doctor grabbed the chain, took four steps back and swung them across the pit with the mummy right behind them.

“Jump!” he shouted.

Clara leapt off when he did. Both tucked, rolled and came up running. She ran fast in high heels-- he was impressed. They sprinted towards the out-of-place TARDIS at the entrance. Behind them, the mummified dinosaur creature rattled its bones while it stumbled inexorably forward. Its giant feet easily cleared the pit.

Clara and the Doctor bounded into the TARDIS just as the mummy crashed against the wall above it. The only sound left was bones clattering hollowly to the floor outside the doors.

The Doctor rushed ahead to dematerialize the TARDIS. He wanted to get away from there. The faster, the better!

“Was that  _Indiana Jones_  enough for you?” He panted, only just now realizing he didn’t breathe properly for their whole run.

Clara grinned at him, her breath also coming in quick spurts. “Clockwork mummy, yeah? I saw gears in its legs.”

“Mmhmm.”

“But how did you figure out the platform in the pit?”

He eased the locking mechanism upright. They arrived safely in Clara’s bedroom exactly one minute after leaving it.

“The floor didn’t make sense to my hands. There were two textures. I figured out where they met and realized I was lying on something smoother. That’s when I knew.”

The Doctor’s hands stung. He looked down and realized he skinned the heels of his palms when they jumped off the chain. Clara’s knees didn’t fare much better. She’d ripped her slacks and her left kneecap leaked a little blood.

He reached under the diagnostics panel for the medical kit.

“Here. No sense getting an infection after that.”

“Yeah, good point.” Clara paused, “Oh, your hands...here, let me.”

“Clara--”

“It’s my fault you got hurt, Doctor.”

The Doctor let Clara clean his scraped hands with a wet wipe. The injuries actually weren’t too bad. Just some small nicks. She bandaged them and kissed his hands after. He tended to her bleeding knee to make it fair. And he touched his lips to it once he placed the bandage.

“So much for these clothes,” said Clara.

“Ah-ah!” The Doctor stopped her before she exited the TARDIS.

“Huh?”

“Wednesday kiss?”

She gave it to him. Everything felt right in the universe-- their brush with death notwithstanding. He watched her open the TARDIS doors and sighed. Sometimes her recklessness scared him.

“Hey,” Clara said.

“Huh?”

“Stay a bit. Those clothes need a wash and you’re probably wanting a shower about now.”

No argument there, though the Doctor didn’t voice that out loud. He impulsively stripped to his black lightning bolt boxers right there in the TARDIS doorway after emptying his coat pockets of his chalk, psychic paper and sonic sunglasses.

“Here.”

“Thanks. You shower first and I’ll get the laundry going.”

Oh, he wanted to go first. All the dust in his hair was starting to itch.

The Doctor completed his shower in exactly ten minutes and decided Clara’s purple bathrobe was easier than going back into the TARDIS for proper clothes. He didn’t care that it had flowers embroidered on it or that only fell to his knees.

Into the hallway he wandered, rubbing his head with a towel to dry his wavy hair faster. He glimpsed Clara dumping his coat into her washing machine and tucking a tape measure into her back pocket with a slip of paper.

“Clara?”

She jumped up, startled, “Yes? Sorry, didn’t hear you coming.”

“My stomach feels funny, so I’m probably hungry. I’m-- ahem-- not much good with a stove, but can I pop something into the microwave for you?”

Clara shrugged one shoulder and scrunched her nose. “What sounds good to you?”

“The tater tots sound good. I think I’d like some of those.” 

Tater tots were a safe food he could trust to not set off his texture-induced gagging. They tasted magnificent with ketchup.

“Then zap some of those. We’ll share. But...” She flashed a Clara-esque smile, “...only if we get to chase it down with the last of the chocolate ice cream in the freezer.”

He grinned wolfishly, all teeth, “You enjoy tempting me, don’t you?”

She swiped the towel off his head, leaving his damp hair sticking up every which way. Whatever she wanted to say got lost in a fit of laughter.

“You look-- your hair-- looks--” An unladylike snort escaped her and she spat out, “-- _Back to the Future!_ ”

“Great Scott,” the Doctor face-palmed, “I’m going to go zap our food now.”

Clara took her shower while he guarded the microwave.

And together, they enjoyed a mound of tater tots followed by the tub of chocolate ice cream.

.o

The Doctor buttoned the last button of his dress shirt collar and opened the TARDIS door.

“Doctor, what are you doing?” Clara hissed at him when he stepped into the restroom alcove of an American 1960′s office corridor. “I thought you weren’t supposed to meddle with history!”

He straightened the manila folder in his hands. There were exactly twenty pieces of paper inside. Each sheet had the lyrics to Rick Astley’s  _Never Gonna Give You Up_  printed over and over. 

“It’s not meddling if I don’t change the course of events. And if you’ve read the things I've read about this man then you’ll see why some things need to be done.”

Clara grabbed his wrist, “Doctor--”

“Shh!” He shook her off when a door down the hall creaked open.

Footsteps approached slowly. The Doctor opened his folder and rounded the corner just in time to crash into a clean-cut young man who also carried a pile of papers.

“Oof!” The man jumped back as his paper pile crashed onto the floor. He spoke with a strong Norwegian accent. “Excuse me, I did not see you coming.” 

The Doctor gasped in feigned dismay, “Look at this mess. How clumsy of me.” He bent to gather all the scattered papers and knocked heads with the man as he tried to do the same. “Oh!  _So_ , so not sorry!”

“Ugh!” The man held his nose, “What department are you from?”

“Clerical,” said the Doctor. He froze, wide eyed, “Oh, it’s  _you_. You invented that thing that makes autistic peoples’ lives a living hell. Do you enjoy it?”

The shorter man looked askance at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re doctor Ivar Lovaas, yes?”

“That’s correct.” Lovaas frowned, his dark eyes hard like coals, “Sir, do you have a name?”

The Doctor tapped the pile of papers on the floor to straighten them. He stood and shoved them into the other man’s arms while flashing him a wide-eyed, almost maniacal grin.

“John Smith,” said the Doctor. He was taller than Lovaas, something he rather liked. “And you’re a sadist, like my old enemy Davros. Actually, no, you’re worse. The worst kinds of sadists always think they’re  _helping_.”

A tiny bit of color left Lovaas’ face. “Sir, psychology is on the next floor. Should I escort you?”

“Nah,” The Doctor crinkled his nose, “That’s where the autistic kids you ‘helped’ are going to end up when they’re grown-ups.”

Lovaas pursed his pouty lips, “I’m about to be late for a meeting. Please step aside and let’s avoid anybody getting hurt.”

“Says the sadist who electrocutes children for being themselves.” The Doctor muttered as he let him walk by. He popped the stem of his No Gloom ‘Shroom into his mouth and smiled at the shorter man’s retreating back.

Ivar Lovaas had no idea his notes were all out of order, upside down and mixed up between printouts of ridiculous song lyrics.

“Doctor,” Clara tugged the back of his jacket, “He’s going to call security up here. What are you  _doing?_ ”

He let her drag him back to the TARDIS. As the doors shut, he took the stim toy out of his mouth and said, “I gave him a taste of his own medicine.”

“You’re being evasive,” she folded her arms. “Who was that? All I know is his name.”

“Ivar Lovaas helped create Applied Behavioral Analysis therapy. His 'therapy’ method abuses autistic people until they behave like something they’re not to avoid further abuse. He doesn’t think neurodivergent people are  _people_  until they’ve been taught their way of existing is wrong and has to be changed.

“The first step to dehumanization is to turn a person into their problems and then they become a problem to solve. It doesn’t matter how they’re hurt as long as they eventually behave the desired way. 

“You can make anyone afraid to scratch their nose if you scream and beat them every time they reach for it. Now imagine being an autistic child and suddenly you get punished every time you try to stim and self-regulate. That is what Lovaas does.”

Clara’s face blanched. Suddenly her teacher’s glare faded. “Did that happen to you on Gallifrey?”

“Mmhmm, when I was very small.” The Doctor focused on a monitor to avoid looking at her. “Autism wasn’t seen as a child-stealing tragedy like it is on Earth, but kids like me were ‘discouraged’ from showing it too much. Doing it anyway was a punishable offense. I learned to disguise my stimming as fidgeting.”

Several moments of silence passed. Clara stepped around the console and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind. A tight, comforting hold where no explanations were necessary.

The Doctor leaned backwards into it, “Now, didn’t you say you wanted to see some sports?”

“Yes, and then you detoured here. So where to?”

He winked, “There’s a zero-gravity dodgeball tournament on Europa in forty-sixteen.”

“Perfect. Let’s go.”

“Hold on...”

The Doctor peered at one of the TARDIS monitors. He smiled when he saw Lovaas sorting his jumbled notes while everyone else in the meeting waited on him. Every minute his meeting ran over was another minute he wasn’t torturing an autistic child.

“Now we can go. Clara?”

Clara pulled the locking mechanism. She kept leaning against his back while the TARDIS carried them away.

.o

Sometimes sleep eluded him. He didn’t like medicating himself to sleep if he could possibly avoid it. No amount of meditation, reading boring literature or counting sheep helped.

The Doctor found himself experiencing a sensory craving. Sensory cravings worked like food cravings. Only the exact edible would quell the desire for it. His body wanted-- needed-- a certain type of stimulus to calm itself down.

Hiding his lack of sleep went well for the first month. By the second one he wanted to climb the walls. Clara asked if he was okay when he started lapsing into microsleeps halfway through the third. He said yes so as not to worry her. Seeing purple phosphenes every so often meant his brain kept working, right?

No sleep meant a short temper. He got in a ridiculous argument with Clara over dust on a bookshelf. They apologized and had great makeup sex afterward, yet that didn’t scratch his neurological itch.

Three months passed and the Doctor knew he couldn’t ignore this sensory craving any longer. It burned his nerves like a forest fire. He called Clara on a Friday evening even though doing so broke routine.

“Hello? Doctor?”

“Clara, hi...”

“Hey! You sound tense.”

“I am tense. Can I come over now?”

“Friday at ten o’clock at night? Are you calling me in the right timezone?”

“Yes. I-I need your help with something, Clara. It’s okay for me to come?”

“Of course. It sounds serious. Come right over, Doctor. It’s fine. See you in a minute?”

“Yeah. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Tiredness threw off the Doctor’s visual processing. The TARDIS console looked like component parts with no connection to each other whatsoever, and those pieces floated into odd configurations if he stared at them too long. Forget trying to read books-- the words jumbled or passed beneath his eyes unprocessed. 

Landing the TARDIS safely took considerable concentration. The Doctor burst into Clara’s living room and immediately started pacing in circles.

“Clara! Clara, Clara, Clara, Clara...” He swung his arms wildly and tangled his fingers in his hair.

Clara, clad simply in white fleece pajamas with a pink trim, jumped up off the couch. Even she looked like her individual features weren’t part of her.

“Doctor, what is it?”

There went his brain bouncing off a simple statement, “I’m completely and utterly exhausted. I’ve tried everything to resolve it and nothing helps. I can’t do the lay down and close my eyes thing! It just won’t happen because...” No gesture let him pull the right words out of thin air, “...because...thing! The laying down thing!”

She followed him as he wandered in aimless circles around the living room.

“Are you trying to tell me you can’t sleep?”

Her question was a magnet for the iron filings of his thoughts.

“Yes! You can’t sleep.” The Doctor echoed it back to her. “Wait, no,  _I_  can’t sleep.” His left hand went to his mouth and he chewed his fingernail without a second thought. “I can’t  _sleep_.”

"Hey,” Clara worked his finger free from his teeth, “Chew your mushroom, not your fingers.”

When he did, she took his free hand. He couldn’t look at her. She didn’t demand he do so.

“Why can’t you sleep, Doctor?”

He squinted at nothing in particular, “Sensory...thing. The thing where you want a thing.”

“Sensory craving?”

“Yes.”

“For?”

This was embarrassing. Being so close to relief had the craving jangling behind his skull like a fire alarm.

“Weight.”

“Ah. Pressure craving?”

“...yeah. I’ll blow up if I don’t get it soon. My nerves are screaming. Sorry, hard to talk...”

“It’s okay.” Clara tugged his hand and led him to her bedroom. A good thing-- he doubted he had the will to walk anywhere but in circles around her living room.

“Get undressed for bed,” she went on, “Take your time.”

Remembering the order to take off clothes required intense mental effort. The Doctor piled extra layers on under his coat in a vain attempt at soothing himself. He had on every garment he wore in this incarnation. Well, all except his dressy button down shirts and trousers.

At last he stood there in white long johns. The tight sort with a trap door for his bum. He had to unbutton it to use the bathroom because he didn’t want his bladder complaining once he got comfortable.

Clara turned the covers down and arranged her abundant pillows like a nest. The Doctor rubbed his eyes as he approached the bed. Seeing the colorful pillows helped him locate where he was supposed to lay. He reclined comfortably, his tired mind silently screaming for relief. She’d piled three pillows to cradle his head-- it minimized his snoring.

“I’m putting your chalk on the nightstand,” said Clara, “Do you want me to put your mushroom with it?”

Anxiousness fluttered his stomach. He shook his head, teeth clamping tighter on his precious chewable stim toy. “Take it out of my mouth when I’m asleep.”

“Okay. I’ll do that. Ready?”

“Mmhmm.”

Clara crawled atop him and straddled his hips to avoid crushing his man parts. She brought the blankets with her when she settled down. Her torso lay exactly center on his, placing her single heartbeat next to his double beats. She squeezed his hips with her thighs and fit her ankles under his knees. Her hands massaged their way up and down his shoulders and biceps. The nest of pillows behind his lower back, ankles and elbows maximized contact where he most needed it.

“There.” She gently gripped either side of his head and rubbed her thumbs across his bushy eyebrows, “It’s all right, Doctor.”

Every nerve ending inside the Doctor’s body ceased buzzing. Tightly wound tension slowly uncurled. His own extremities made sense again. He sighed in blessed relief and embraced the lovely lady holding him together.

“Clara, Clara, Clara...thank you.”

She kissed him tenderly before resting her head beneath his chin. “You’re welcome. Now shh, rest. I'll hold you while you sleep, love.”

The Doctor exhaled as he closed his eyes. He vaguely felt Clara lift the No Gloom ‘Shroom out of his mouth and then he knew no more. Sleep, once so elusive, draped over him like a fog. 

.o

Light and shadow, his first companions.

The Doctor lay on his back where morning sunlight streamed into Clara’s kitchen window to illuminate the space he occupied. His delicate hands with their long fingers glowed in the sunbeam’s luminescence.

“Where do you go when you’re doing that?”

He jerked up onto his elbows, startled. “Clara! I was just...”

“Stimming,” she finished for him. “You look like you go off into your head somewhere. So where do you go?”

The Doctor’s hearts gradually slowed from a gallop to a more reasonable rhythm. He patted the floor next to him and lay down again. Clara reclined beside him, so close he heard the air enter and leave her nostrils as she breathed.

“See how the glare of the light on the wall makes everything dim? It’s almost like a void. That is the darkness. Now look at the sunbeam. Can you see the dust floating in it?”

He glanced at her.

She smiled. “Yeah, all those little specks. Are they the light?”

“No. The sun is the light.” The Doctor lifted her hand into the sunlight, “Our hands are mirrors of both light and dark, see? Look how our fingers unite them.”

Clara’s curious frown suggested she wasn’t quite understanding, but how could she when he tried to explain a thing that had no words?

He grasped her wrist again and guided her hand to and fro amid the dust motes.

“Your fingers create air currents that stir the dust. And no matter how many particles you sweep away, there are always more to replace them.”

“Dust is like that,” Clara remarked, experimentally swishing her fingers around in the light.

“So is the universe,” said the Doctor. He moved his hand parallel to Clara’s, momentarily transfixed by the pallor of his own fingertips compared to hers.

She touched their fingertips together. Just enough pressure to not cause pain. His first companions, light and shadow, silently welcomed her like they welcomed him.

“Did you ever do this with actual stardust?”

“Yes.”

He interlocked their fingers. She squeezed gently. The glare of golden sun on her hand cast his into black shadow. Her light on his darkness. His timelessness and her brevity. No, more than that. Their love stood personified before his eyes in a way that obliterated words into dust.

The Doctor tried desperately to place his mind inside hers, to use the ability stolen from him as a child to show her exactly how this felt, but the barrier created by speech would not come down.

“What are you feeling when you do this?” asked Clara.

She didn’t understand what just happened, and he had no feasible explanation for it. But there she was, trying to share this experience because she saw it meant something to him.

“There isn’t a word for it.” Emotion left his voice husky, “Do you have your phone on you?”

She freed it from her pocket. He snapped a picture of their hands and gave it back to her. She didn’t ask him why, she simply accepted and moved their joined hands through the sunbeam dust. He swore his hearts were flying with them.

.o

Just a bite of hot apple pie. Nothing to it, right? The Doctor scooped a forkful into his mouth. Delicious and hot, albeit slightly sour. And it felt very lumpy and powdery. Too lumpy and powdery. His tongue jerked forward as soon as the pie touched it. He spat the food into a napkin and hung his head, embarrassed by his gagging.

“This is a no-go. The--” He covered another retch, “--taste is fine. It’s the crust and the apple lumps.”

“I think I have a fix here.” Clara dabbed a scoop of vanilla ice cream onto the pie slice. “Let that melt a little. The pie is hot, so it shouldn’t take long.”

She ate her own slice without ice cream and didn’t look at all put out by his rejection of her treat. He found himself envying her ability to eat practically anything without worrying about gagging.

“Now try it,” said Clara.

The Doctor gathered a bite on his fork and stuck it in his mouth. Melted ice cream didn’t cushion the apple pie lumpiness or its crumbly crust. He ran to the sink so he wouldn’t spit across the table. The sweet and sour mix mocked him. So tantalizingly delicious, but it  _felt bad_  in his mouth. His gag reflex wasn’t having it.

“I can’t...” His face was burning with embarrassment, “I know you put a lot of effort into this pie.”

“Don’t you mean pies?”

Clara opened the fridge. The Doctor heard the gurgle-hiss of whipped cream. She set a slice of pumpkin pie on the counter next to him. The whipped cream was sprayed in a single line straight down the middle, just how he liked it.

“I know pumpkin pie is a safe pie for you.” She smiled, “I baked one in case the apple didn’t work out. It’s fine. I’ll add apple pies to your ‘never again’ list. That means this whole pie is mine and the pumpkin is all yours.”

The Doctor grinned gratefully at Clara. He smeared the whipped cream around on his pie slice with his fork and took a bite. No gagging, just the delicious sweetness of autumn.

He leaned over to bump his forehead into hers once, nuzzled her nose twice and gave her three light pecks on the lips. That Wednesday kiss doubled as a thank you.

“So why don’t you want me in your bedroom?”

Clara swallowed her bite of pie. “I painted my closet door. The fumes are pretty strong. And if they’re strong to me, they’ll be unbearable for you.”

This was true.

“Did you know you have a sewing pin stuck to your sleeve?”

“What?” She glanced down, picked the tiny pin off her blue sleeve cuff and frowned at it. “Must be a manufacturing error. I just bought this blouse yesterday. I’ll have to call the store later and tell them.”

The Doctor shrugged while she set it on the kitchen table. He finished his pumpkin pie and placed his dish in the sink. “It’s my turn to pick where we go, yes?”

“Yup!”

He clasped his hands together and wiggled his fingers to dispel some excitement. “How would you like to see a triple total solar eclipse?”

Wonder flashed in Clara’s brown eyes. She scarfed the last of her pie and plunked her bowl inside his in the sink.

.o

The Doctor slammed his TARDIS doors and leaned against them, sniffling. Powerful sobs shook his shoulders. He sank to sit and rocked back and forth while he wept.

It was supposed to be a simple thing, and it overwhelmed him. So much movement, noise and touching...and he fled. Running, something he did well.

The memory of it rang clear in his head like clip-show of failure.

 _Erkmad Seven didn’t have any alleys to duck into for privacy. A bunch of purple-skinned aliens with cat whiskers and smashing hairstyles paid audience to his shouting as he ran down a busy street. Worse, they saw the crying. People did not stagger along a sidewalk crying like that unless they were intoxicated, drugged, grieving-- nobody considered it could also be someone in a state of sensory overload_. 

Tears still fell, but the Doctor forced himself upright. He paced laps around the catwalk surrounding the console room, both hands rubbing at his hair. Letting himself cry out loud felt better than holding it back. 

 _Someone took him by the arm and sat him on a bench. He couldn’t tell them that every kind hand on his shoulder burned like fiery napalm. One of the older ones called emergency services. The ambulance flight triggered another meltdown. More shouting, recoiling and nothing safe to hit except himself. The medical personnel injected him with a fast-acting sedative and covered his hands with soft mitts_.

“That’s shameful, Basil!” The Doctor bellowed at himself between sobs, “That’s shameful, Basil!” 

He examined his knuckles and felt his face for signs of injury. There weren’t any. Nothing was sore or swollen. Only the memory remained. The words shouted at him in his childhood kept escaping his mouth in a flood of self loathing.

“That’s shameful, Basil!” A railing supported him when another wave of sobbing nearly stole all his muscle tone. In his mind he was four years old again, stamping his feet because the adults didn’t understand.

 _He woke up still having the meltdown, and in a panic_ _he jumped out the window of the hospital room. Landing in a bush saved him a broken bone or two. He ripped the mitts off his hands and ran faster than he thought possible. Never in his life was he happier to see the TARDIS. He bolted inside, seeking safety_.

His path detoured to the console. He pulled the locking mechanism. Grinding dimensional stabilizers assaulted his ears. Pacing resumed. Nothing felt good except movement. He walked in aimless, endless circles matching the spinning of his mind. Every attempt to breathe deeply dissolved into more sobbing.

A public meltdown. The ultimate shame labeling someone as  _different_.

Every Time Lord, Time Lady and nonbinary Time Person was autistic. Every single one of them. Autism wasn’t a horrible thing on Gallifrey, but those who didn’t fall right into the line of ‘acceptably autistic’ were ‘treated’ with 'modifications’. 

Children were 'encouraged’ to conceal their autistic behaviors and only display them in ‘acceptable’ ways. Well, nobody explained what counted as ‘acceptable’ which led to the young Doctor trying to hide everything.

This current incarnation didn’t make hiding easy. Starting his regeneration cycles all over again gave him the same sensory issues he had in his original birth-body with the exception of more difficulty processing touch. And it brought a bunch of memory baggage along for the ride.

Clara became one of a few people who spotted his autistic neurology despite all his efforts to mask it. She witnessed a meltdown from start to finish, she accepted it as a thing that happened and started looking for ways to make life easier for  _him_. A total opposite to everything he endured growing up. 

If only the people on Erkmad Seven were like Clara. But no, they chemically restrained him and treated him like he was diseased because he acted  _different_.

At last the Doctor drew a successful deep breath. He counted mentally to three and took another. Four breaths later shrank the lump in his throat to nothingness. His innards were dull gray. Every thought existed in a fog. He leaned on the rail with his head bowed and waited for the mental blurriness to lift.

The urge to bite the insides of his cheeks grew unbearable. He slid the stem of his black No Gloom ‘Shroom into the left side of his mouth and chewed it with his molars. 

Erkmad Seven was a cold planet, so the tasteless food grade silicone felt cool and hard like the bottom of a shoe at first. It gradually took on a texture closer to thick taffy without the stickiness. Warm or cold, it still provided fantastic pressure feedback in his teeth and jaw. Holding the umbrella part of the mushroom tight against his lips so he could suck on it while he gnawed turned it into sensory bliss. 

Clara couldn’t have chosen a better stim toy. This thing paid for itself over and over.

The Doctor stopped at the console again to push the locking mechanism upright. Landing drums sounded as the TARDIS materialized in Clara’s living room. He positioned himself partway behind the central time rotor and tried to wipe the evidence of crying off his face.

And a moment later Clara bustled in talking. “It’s nasty and rainy out today. Phew! I’ll never wear those white suede shoes again, so--” She emerged around the console, “--Doctor?”

“I just saw the weather reports.” The Doctor spoke around the No Gloom ‘Shroom in the corner of his mouth. “Rain until tomorrow.”

Clara shoved the external monitor away from him. Her expression and voice both softened, “You’re not okay right now, so don’t try to say you are. Talk to me. What happened?”

He pulled the No Gloom ‘Shroom out of his mouth. “Public meltdown.”

“Why? Wait...don’t answer that unless you want to talk about it.”

The Doctor ran a frustrated hand over his nearly uncontrollable hair. “I tried to get a haircut. My first one for this incarnation, so I thought nothing of it when I went to the barbershop on Erkmad Seven.”

“The place with the purple people who...?” Clara’s fingers approximated cat whiskers near her nose.

“Mmhmm.” He tugged his coat lapel and inhaled the comforting scent of chalk. “The barber jabbed the comb into my hair and started jerking it around, and I felt as if I’d been beheaded! I never knew when to expect it. And what kind of barbershop shares space with an awful, noisy casino? They weren’t this terrible when I went there in my last incarnation! So I ran before the scissors came out.”

The Doctor went on to recount the ambulance, the sedative, the mitts and his escape from the hospital. He swore he’d never show this incarnation’s face on that planet ever again.

Clara’s eyes did that inflating thing he’d come to find endearing. She chose not to lavish him with apologies or pity. Instead, she leaned on the console and said, “You didn’t have the same sensory issues in your last incarnation. You used to like bright, flashy and noisy places and now you don’t.”

“Yes, because I had a very dull sense of t-- ooh.” He straightened and pointed to her because she had a point. The barbershop hadn’t changed; his perception of it did.

Clara came closer, but thankfully didn’t try to touch him when he stiffened his posture. “You know, I used to give my friends haircuts back in high school. Let me know when you're calmer and I’ll cut yours.”

She was flashing him that knowing Clara-esque smile so full of confidence. He couldn’t help but briefly mirror it.

“I don’t want it as short as when I first regenerated. That looked a little too severe. But if you can neaten it a bit...”

“Easily,” she said, kissing her finger and holding it up.

He kissed his fingertip and touched it to hers. 

Thirty minutes later found the Doctor draped in a beach towel while sitting on a plastic chair in the middle of Clara’s kitchen. Heavy rain rumbled against the rooftop and pattered on the street. Scents of wet cement wafted through the slightly open window.

Having Clara draw a comb through his hair was bliss. She used long, slow strokes instead of quick, jerky ones. His brain could keep up.

“I’ll start at your left side. Lift a hand up if you need a break. It’s fine. Nobody’s in a hurry here. Ready?”

The Doctor popped the stem of his No Gloom ‘Shroom into his mouth and gave her a nod. He swore he could  _hear_  the metal of the scissors emitting a whine even though they weren’t electronic in any way. They felt cold despite not touching his skin at all. 

“First cut coming up. One, two, three.” 

The counting really helped him prepare. She pinched a lock of his hair between two fingers and snipped three times. His ear still sensed the scissors right next to it, and feeling the little tugs of his hair being cut sent unpleasant not-pain-but-not-pleasure-either tingles shooting down his back.

He gestured with his left hand after the fourth cutting.

“You’re doing fine, love,” Clara said as she backed off.

The Doctor nodded, his attention focused on squishing the No Gloom ‘Shroom between his back molars. Chewing it helped the not-so-nice sensations fade away. He gave a thumb’s up and the coolness of the scissors returned.

“Here we go. One, two, three--” Snip! “One, two, three--” Snip-snip!

And so it went for almost an hour. Clara was fantastic about going at his pace. She had him lean his head forward when she began working on the top. It prevented the hair from falling onto his face and jabbing his skin like broken glass.

The scissors were unpleasant enough. Now he had to face the clippers. Just hearing them sent his hearts racing. A physical fear response, not the emotion.

“Do you want to hold the clipper while it’s running?” Clara suggested.

“Why?”

“Maybe the vibration won’t be as much of a surprise if you feel it buzzing first.”

What a fantastic idea! Why didn’t he think of it?

The Doctor held out his hand. Clara placed the buzzing rectangular thing into it. He touched his other palm to the tip and told himself it wasn’t going to lop his ear off. The vibrations made the bones in both hands itch. Then they went numb and that was more disconcerting than itching.

Clara said, “I only need to use it on your sideburns and the nape of your neck. Should be over pretty fast.”

He inhaled a deep breath before passing the clippers back to her. Like magic, his hands ‘reappeared’ in his awareness. “Okay. Please tell me before they touch my skin. I’ll handle it better that way.”

“All right.” Clara moved to his left. “Clippers on your left in one, two, three...”

It sounded like helicopters, lawnmowers and a tank running over him. The vibrations drilled into his skull and withdrew. Once, twice, three times. Individual hairs crackled as the clippers cut them. He wouldn’t mind it much if strong vibrations made sense to his bare skin. His teeth itched, so he clamped them on the No Gloom ‘Shroom and fought the urge to squirm away.

Finally, mercifully, the clippers withdrew and took all their hellish itchy-noise with them. 

“There you are. Your left side is done. Are you okay?” 

“Mmhmm,” The Doctor inhaled, exhaled and let the shoulder he didn’t realize he’d squished up close to his cheek relax. “It’s not painful, if that’s what you’re asking. Can we do the other side now?”

Clara gave a nod and repeated the procedure exactly how she did it on the left. He bore it in tense silence until it was over.

The back of his neck wasn’t as awful as the sides. She gave him a three count and worked the clippers in quick upward motions. He managed not to sink his neck into his shoulders.

At last the clippers shut off. She used the edge of the towel to brush the hairs off his neck.

“I saved the best part for last.” Clara grinned, “Time for the wash.”

“We’ve never done this on a hypersensitive day,” said the Doctor. Excitement prickled down his spine. He slid his No Gloom ‘Shroom back into place on his wrist, “Anything can happen.”

They scooted the chair to the sink. Clara padded the edge with a towel. The Doctor was exactly the perfect height to lean his head backwards over the sink. He undid the top button of his shirt collar to make himself more comfortable. She did a temperature test squirt on the top of his head.

“Too hot?”

“No, it’s perfect.”

Clara straddled his lap because it made reaching easier. The Doctor didn’t mind her sitting there; her weight was reassuring. She wore a pleated black skirt that day. He closed his eyes as the warmth soaked his scalp and he luxuriated in the feel of her hands helping to spread the water evenly through his curly gray locks.

The faucet shut off and the lid on the shampoo bottle clicked. Peach scents wafted up. Then Clara’s hands were in his hair. She was only smearing the shampoo around for even coverage, and already the Doctor felt himself getting hard.

“Heh, you really enjoy this,” Clara giggled.

"It feels sexy when you do it.” The Doctor waggled his eyebrows without opening his eyes. “Lift your bum up for a second. My little soldier needs a realignment.”

He adjusted himself through his pants so the tip more or less pointed towards his waistband. He was at half-mast already. 

“Okay. Try not to crush me when you sit again.”

Clara’s weight resettled in his lap. Right at the base of his shaft.

“Are you going to cream your underpants, Doctor?”

“Yes...I’m not kidding. Everything you’re doing to my scalp is going straight below, too.”

"Good,” Clara whispered in his ear, "Don’t hold back.”

She started scrubbing slowly at first. Top, sides, back. Circles, spirals, zig-zags. Her nails scratched his scalp and his whole body experienced it. His hearts raced. A red flush spread on his face and neck. He parted his lips to breathe through his nose and mouth because air suddenly seemed in short supply.

“That’s the face you make when we’re having sex,” she said.

“I feel like we are,” he replied, “Oh, Clara...Clara, Clara, Clara...”

Clara kept going. No, not only that, she scrubbed faster. 

The Doctor’s brow furrowed. His breath caught in his throat when she massaged the back of his head, her fingers slick with shampoo.  

“You’re close,” Clara whispered. 

"Yes...please don’t stop.”

Tingling sensations tightened the muscles in his pelvis. He gripped Clara’s knees as that itchy tingle worked its way towards the tip of his erection and spread up his stomach. Waves of it kept swelling beneath his skin like tsunamis to push it further from its source. 

She rubbed little semicircles behind his ears. He emitted a soft whine and squeezed his eyes shut because he swore he was about to die a most wonderful death.

Her nails scraped across his scalp again and everything in his body squeezed in on itself. No stopping it now. He gasped, muscles tense, anticipating. The first gush escaped him like a gunshot, cutting off his moan. Such pressure, such pleasure. Each subsequent contraction forced the air from his lungs and arched his spine off the chair backing. 

Clara leaned forward, effectively pinning his shoulders against the sink. She kept massaging shampoo through his hair while he trembled helplessly beneath her. He ejaculated so hard he couldn’t close his mouth until his orgasm gave way to lightheaded tiredness. 

There were so many emotions welling up and so many thoughts in his mind, and none made it through his lips. His voice refused to engage. Going nonverbal at a time like this-- how embarrassing! How...how shameful...

 _Other people_  taught him to feel panic when words ceased flowing in his mind and mouth.  _Other people_  said nobody liked a person who didn’t talk.  _Other people_  made him believe not talking was too  _different_. Nobody wanted to be  _different_.  _Different_  was  _bad_.  _Different_  meant not a person. 

He opened his eyes and tried to speak again. Nothing. Like his vocal cords didn’t exist. His hands flew up to cover his face in shame. Nonverbal was his natural state. His brain tried often to revert to it during times of extreme trauma or intense emotion, but it never stayed there because of the meddling from his childhood. 

“Doctor?” Clara hedged, her voice carrying a note of worry.

The Doctor gesticulated at his lips. He couldn’t even mouth words. Those muscles were completely disconnected from his brain right now.

Understanding flashed over her face. Her nimble fingers went from scrubbing his scalp to petting his soapy hair.

“Everything you’re trying to say right now...I already know. You don’t have to talk to tell me things.” She cradled his head on her palms, her eyes focused on his even though he didn’t look back at hers, “This is who you really are, and it’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with this, Doctor.” 

Tears blurred the kitchen into colorful abstractions. The Doctor didn’t quite sob although he came close to it. She kissed the droplets off the outer corners of his eyes and gazed lovingly at him like the most complete person in her life.

Clara cared so much for him-- she accepted him exactly how he was-- yet the depth of her acceptance didn’t wholly register until he saw her tender expression in that exact moment. She loved him. Not some other person’s idealized version, not some image he couldn’t keep up, not something she wanted to change him into. She wanted the real him and nothing else.

Right then he yearned to wrap all the light in the kitchen around her and rain the stars down into her hair. He died a billion little deaths in her arms and he would be happy to die billions more if it meant experiencing  _this_.

Did she know how deeply she touched his hearts? Did she have any idea what her acceptance meant to him? 

The Doctor pulled Clara close and pressed his lips to hers. She leaned into it, turning on the faucet and rinsing his hair with warm water while they kissed. He reached between them to unbuckle his belt. His knuckles brushed her damp panties when he unfastened his trousers. Full body skin-on-skin wasn’t an option for him at the moment, yet he  _needed_  to love her right now. 

Clara followed his lead perfectly by tugging his gray, semen-stained question mark boxers down far enough to free his manhood. The tip stayed partly concealed by his foreskin. He hadn’t regained his erection yet. She pulled the gusset of her panties aside, guided him into her tight wetness anyway and grabbed his coat lapels.

“Doctor,” she sighed against his mouth. He slipped back out on the first thrust because he wasn’t hard enough to stay inside her. That sent her giggling and she dry humped him until he became firm as a flagpole.

This angle of penetration wouldn’t grant her the friction she enjoyed. She liked his pubic bone pressing against her.

The Doctor tapped the corner of the counter because he knew exactly how to rectify this. Clara tucked the towel around his neck before seating herself on the counter, her cheeks blushing with desire. She moved her pink floral print panties aside, inviting him. He guided himself into her wet warmth out of sheer need to be closer to her. Her strong legs crept beneath his coat and wrapped tightly about his waist, spurring him on. 

He didn’t thrust once he was inside her. Instead, he pushed his pubic bone against hers and moved his hips in a circular fashion like a tango dancer to simulate how she touched herself. This would give her enjoyable bursts of stimulation while minimizing his own.

“Oh, God,” Clara gasped into his shoulder, “Keep doing...whatever  _that_  is!”

They huddled cheek to cheek and made love that way for ages. Right there on her kitchen counter. Eye contact wasn’t necessary when their spirits touched through their joined bodies.

Clara almost threw her head backwards into the cupboard behind her. She was flushed, tight and tense, all signs of an imminent release. He ground faster to help her reach it.

“Ah!” She clutched desperately at his coat. Her voice rose in pitch and volume as she achieved her peak.

The Doctor watched how the tendons in Clara’s throat tensed and studied the wrinkling of her brow. His blue eyes held no lust or hunger, just the tenderest of love. She was so beautiful to him, like light and shadow. 

Dewy tears glistened on her eyelashes when she saw how he looked at her. She pulled him cheek to cheek and whispered, “Your turn, love. Sit in the chair again.”

Somehow, the Doctor wobbled into the chair without detaching her. Clara held onto his coat lapels to minimize distractions and began riding him. The push and pull of her wet heat on his length had him sighing out loud. Sitting in this position rubbed her slick, soft panties on his shaft. They would’ve hurt something awful if they were dry, but  _that_  was Heaven.

The Doctor laid his head back against the cool sink. Something inside him was gradually building-- a thing from long, long ago-- and he did nothing to hold it back. 

He slammed across a mental barrier and plunged straight through the complex spiral of Clara Oswald. Their consciousnesses were two merging galaxies ghosting past each other before gravity pulled them together.

Everything Clara felt throughout their shared adventures flooded into him. He saw how the love she had for him shattered with his regeneration and reconstituted once she realized he was still the same man in a different casing.

His deep sighs evolved into low groans. They happened involuntarily, he had no control of his voicebox. He squeezed his eyes shut and his hands flew up to grip her elbows. This climax didn’t last as long as the previous one, but it was no less powerful and the mental connection caused Clara to have another one herself. 

Their movements gave way to stillness. She left him inside her when she laid her head upon his shoulder. For a moment the only sounds were their breathing and pattering rain.

“You’re in my mind,” whispered Clara, “I feel you  _thinking_.”

The Doctor’s response wasn’t words. Just a feeling of affirmation. He showed her their joined hands glowing in the sunlight. Flashes of his stubby childhood fingertips swirling sunlit dust motes cut across the image, followed immediately by his full-grown hands trailing through dense stardust.

“It  _is_  peaceful,” Clara replied like he spoke to her. 

He allowed the peace it brought him to grow between them. Then he gave her an eyebrow waggle and a smile, and everything flowed naturally into bright, boundless, euphoric love.

Her eyes welled over. She sniffled and hid her face in his shoulder as a few sobs quaked her body. 

“I love you, too,” Clara said shakily. She straightened, looking at him with tears on her cheeks. 

His thirteen faces floated in her memory. She loved them all, regardless of how old or young they appeared. He sensed her believing she didn’t deserve him-- she compared herself to lightning, there and gone again. 

The Doctor brushed the tears off her cheeks with his thumbs. He added a tree to her mental image. Being struck by lightning changed a tree forever. 

Their physical contact started to make his skin hurt. Clara tenderly kissed his lips and climbed off his lap. The connection between them broke once their bodies separated. She lifted her skirt to show him the wet patch on her pink floral print panties. He tucked himself back into his gray question mark boxers and gave her a gander at the dark stain near the waistband. 

“Oops,” Clara said.

They grinned simultaneously and burst into hysterical laughter.

Twenty minutes later, the Doctor-- now with dry hair and no underpants under his trousers-- studied himself in Clara’s bathroom mirror. His gray hair looked almost exactly the same...just neater and manageable. Being able to run his fingers through his hair and not have it stick up every which way felt fantastic.

Clara’s reflection appeared beside his. Their eyes met in the mirror. He winked at her.

“Perfect.” He said it as if he never had a lapse in speech. “Clara, I have a question.”

Clara didn’t comment on the return of his voice. “Ask away.”

“Why does the idea of me ejaculating in my underpants excite you so?”

She blushed, and it was quite fetching on her face. “It’s a fetish. There’s something sexy about a well-dressed man creaming his trousers because of me. Does it bother you?”

“Not in the least. But...” His eyes gained a wicked gleam, “It’s always the gray question mark underpants that get it. Ever notice that?”

“Maybe they’re lucky.”

“Yes, I’m beginning to think that.” 

“Doctor?”

“Hm?”

“You touched my mind somehow. I felt you thinking...is it always that scattered for you?”

“Yes,” he answered both her statement and question.

“Why haven’t you done it like that before?”

The Doctor laid his hands on the cool porcelain sink without looking at Clara. A memory he kept from her surfaced when he stared at his reflection in the mirror. The face he saw peering back wasn’t an old man, but a small child.

 _A woman’s thin, bony hands wrapped around his four year old scalp. He sensed her searching his brain, and he heard her intent. This was a thing he didn’t want. Being so small compared to her meant he had no way of breaking her grasp_.

 _Brain matter didn’t feel pain, but everything around it did. Electric pain on his skull, between his meninges and in his skin. This forced telepathic change rerouted his neurons like railroad track switches, except they couldn’t turn back afterward. The victims were the neurons that allowed him his powerful telepathy. Doors slammed shut inside his mind and he was never the same_.

__“You’ve broken my mind!”_    
_

_His first painful words came as the wail of a child betrayed by his protectors_.

 _The speech abilities granted to him came with their own difficulties. Talking never felt right or natural. It was slow, unwieldy. Speech difficulties carried over into all his future regenerations and he always concealed them out of shame_.

 _Experience quickly taught him that nobody cared about the mental gymnastics he did to make his brain, breath, mouth parts and larynx work in tandem so long as he spoke intelligible words. Real people talked, and not talking meant he didn’t count or matter_.

 _He wanted to be a person who mattered_.

“It’s how I communicated as a child before speech was forced onto me. Sometimes my mind remembers how it used to work when I go nonverbal, and even then I rarely make a connection that strongly. I can share images at will if I need to transmit vast amounts of information quickly, but compared to what I could do before...”

His shoulders slumped. The weight of things he never told anyone pushed them down.

“I had the potential to be a powerful touch telepath, Clara, the best Gallifrey had ever seen. Being autistic didn’t cause it-- I just had the right genes. I could have done...could have  _been_...so much more than what I am. And it was taken from me because I couldn’t speak like other children. I was left more disabled by a treatment meant to make me  _look_  less disabled.”

He closed his eyes and pursed his lips. And he told Clara about everything.

About how telepathy wasn’t the only thing he lost. Other parts of his mind suffered collateral damage. Having this ‘treatment’ done to him at such a young age made it his body’s default configuration, and it would affect all his future regenerations. 

About how he sensed all the things wrong inside his mind. Adults constantly told him to pipe down about them because he fit in more and that was all that mattered.

About adults who didn’t care that thinking happened in a disordered fashion, like slider puzzles that needed unscrambling before he could line them up linearly. He learned to think quickly, so nobody ever noticed this cognitive lapse. 

About adults who didn’t care that new sensory processing issues cropped up in the days following his treatment. These would distort different senses at varying degrees throughout his future regenerations. 

About adults who didn’t care that he developed post-regenerative amnesia which left him confused and scared until his scrambled memories reunited with his identity.

About adults who didn’t care that they caused a lifelong self-loathing.

The silence afterward stretched like spaghettified matter falling into a black hole.

“I’m sorry.” Clara reached out to touch his arm, thought better of it and withdrew her hand. Telepathy wasn’t necessary for sensing her sympathy. Not pity, just sympathy.

“What are you apologizing for? You didn’t do it to me.” 

“But you miss it.”

The Doctor shrugged huffily. “I can’t change it and it’s no use wasting my time crying over what could’ve been while living what  _is_.” He finished preening his hair and straightened to face her fully. “Anyway, it’s Wednesday, and it’s your turn to pick a destination. Where to?”

"I need to change clothes first, but...” Clara’s eyes shimmered excitedly. She took his cue and wiped the sadness off her expression. “Will you show me the nebula I saw in your mind?”

That day, they sat cross-legged on the TARDIS roof and he showed her how he stimmed in the dust of the Horsehead nebula.

.o

The Doctor tucked his coat, holey jumper, trousers and socks into the washing machine hidden in a console room roundrel. His pocket chalk, sonic sunglasses and psychic paper lay in a pile on the main console.

Being pooped on by an angry pterodactyl wasn’t his idea of fun, but at least her eggs were safe.

He stood there in his nicer attire-- at least up to the waistcoat and white dress shirt-- while the washing machine chugged. His phone beeped. He checked it. A text from Clara.

 _Hi! Don’t come rushing out when you land in my flat. I’ll come to you. See you soon! XOXO_  

Chuckling, the Doctor texted back,  _As you wish_.

The washer beeped and reversed directions. It drained the water out in preparation for the drying cycle. Watching the drying process wasn’t going to dry his clothes any faster or accomplish anything productive. 

He approached the console and pushed the locking mechanism upright for a nice, smooth rematerialization in Clara’s living room.

The TARDIS door creaked open less than ten seconds later.

“Close your eyes, and no peeking.”

The Doctor shut his eyes tight.

“Are they closed?”

“Yes.”

Something clanked nearby. “Keep ‘em closed, Doctor.”

He pouted ever so slightly. “I promise that I’m not peeking.”

Clara’s surprises were rarely unpleasant, and it was never intentional if they were.

Her peach scent came closer.

“Where’s your coat?”

“Laundry.”

“Oh. Let me get that for you. It looks like the dryer’s done. Keep your eyes closed!”

“Ooh,” he kept his eyes shut, “You’re a bit pushy today.”

“Har, har.” Clara’s leather shoes creaked faintly up the steps.

The Doctor swung his arms back and let Clara slide his coat on. It fit comfortably snug all of a sudden. Did the washing machine shrink it? He grabbed the lapels to straighten it and his hands immediately froze. His eyebrows settled in a line as he tried to make sense of this odd sensory feedback.

Since when was his coat velvet?

“Open your eyes, Doctor,” said Clara, her voice sweet with a smile.

The Doctor’s first sight was a full length mirror. His gaze zeroed in on the velvet maroon coat now occupying his body. It fell neatly past his hips, which created a nice, sleek silhouette. He felt for all the pockets, noticed the red buttons on the sleeves and eyed the red silk lining inside. Just like his other coat!

Clara smoothed the lapels against his chest. She used firm pressure-- it didn’t hurt. “How does that fit?”

“It fits perfectly. Where did you find this?” asked the Doctor.

Her big, brown eyes softened. “I didn’t. I made it.”

His jaw dropped. “You  _made_  this?”

“Yep. Sewed it myself. And I made the left breast pocket a little bit deep so...” Clara showed him his box of chalk before sliding it gently into that pocket, “...you won’t lose this.”

“Clara...” He was incredulous. “You didn’t really paint your closet door, did you?”

“Nope, I was sewing and didn’t want you to see.” She led his hand to the fabric again, “I made it a little tight on purpose for the pressure, and I chose velvet because I thought you might like it for stimming purposes. And do you remember that sunset on the planet with the crystal mountains? You said you would love a coat of that color. I saw the fabric and couldn’t resist.”

“I did say...but this...uh...Clara...Clara, Clara, Clara...” Words kept jumbling in his head. He gesticulated as if trying to grab unreachable syllables out of thin air, “Why?”

Her shoulders rose in a shrug. “I wanted to.” She inclined her head and tickled the hollow under his bottom lip, “Now c’mon, go for a spin so I can see how that moves on you.”

The Doctor beamed delightedly and circled the console. His new coat flowed against his hips. Its weight felt like a hug on his shoulders. He pulled a few vogue dance moves to model for her. “How do I look?”

“Doctor-y,” Clara said brightly. She clasped her hands at her chest. “Do you like it?”

“Clara, no one has given me a greater gift.” He was astonished that he said those words exactly how he thought them, and hurriedly followed it up with a whisper, “Thank you.”

Then he rushed over and waltzed her around the console while grinning like a total fool.

“Ah!” Clara laughed when he dipped her, “You’re welcome, love!”

They exchanged a Wednesday kiss before straightening. The Doctor stepped back because he noticed something missing in himself, yet couldn’t place what it was. He immediately sought to distract his mind because thoughts that went missing usually came back when he ceased looking for them.

“Clara, take my picture. This is fine handiwork. Take a picture of it.” 

“In the TARDIS?”

“She’ll turn the background a plain color.”

Clara inhaled sharply and nodded in understanding. She grabbed her phone. “Gimme something worthy of being my phone wallpaper this time.”

The Doctor turned to the side and stuck his hands into his trousers pockets. “How about this?”

“Perfect.” Clara clicked the photo. She gazed at the screen, her expression soft. “This is the best picture of you...ever.”

He made a ‘gimme’ gesture with his outstretched hand. She passed him the phone and he realized what went missing.

The TARDIS created a lovely granite gray background that brought out the coat’s maroon coloring. And the coat’s wearer looked right at the camera lens with eyes free of shame.

.o END o.

  


_“Acceptance is the key to be_ ,  
_to be truly free_.  
_Will you do the same for me?”_

\--Katy Perry,  _[Unconditionally](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XjwZAa2EjKA)_  

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> .o
> 
> I am in no way rushing this to Face the Raven, I just wanted to throw in my headcanon for where the Doctor got the sexy velvet coat. ~_^


End file.
